


Fierce and Jealous

by htebazytook



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Battle of Five Armies, Dragon Sickness, First Time, M/M, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 02:58:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3274157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo has tried talking to Thorin. He tries something else, instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fierce and Jealous

**Title:** Fierce and Jealous  
**Author:** htebazytook  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** *disclaims*  
**Pairing:** Bilbo/Thorin  
**Time Frame:** during The Battle of the Five Armies  
**Author's Notes:** Thank you to [windfallswest](http://archiveofourown.org/users/windfallswest) for the beta!  
**Summary:** Bilbo has tried talking to Thorin. He tries something else, instead.

 

The stars look different here. The same ones, Bilbo knows, but he's seeing them now from a different vantage point. 

Every night grows quieter, increasingly scarce birds and crickets falling silent to make way for the encroaching winter. There is a pristine beauty to the rock and barren branches of the wastelands laid out before him, the relit ruins of Dale and the smoking black smudge of the Long Lake in the distance. 

The rocky ledge he is keeping watch from isn't exactly comfortable, so Bilbo sits on his coat (Bain's coat, technically). The wind is cold on his face but the gold ring in his palm absorbs his body heat almost greedily, returning it like a hot coal so that Bilbo is starting to sweat.

"What have you got in your pocket?"

Bilbo jumps in surprise, unsure of who had spoken until Thorin steps into the moonlight, sharp metal crown dulled but gleaming. Thorin's voice, which Bilbo has loved since it had first haunted him with song in Bag End, doesn't always sound like his own anymore.

"Nothing," Bilbo replies, tucking the ring away and holding up his hands.

Thorin looks out over the charred dark lands before the mountain. "It is fortunate we have entered Erebor before winter comes upon us fully."

"It won't be long." Bilbo points to the inky sky. "The Wain is, well, waning."

Thorin's nose wrinkles, as though the stars themselves are responsible for the Elves liking them best. Bilbo hates the way disgust sits on his face. "It is very unlike the Shire here, is it not?"

"That is true, though I imagine it wasn't always . . . well, like this." 

"I would have these lands return to their former greenery. All the valley shall be tilled again and rich, and the desolation filled with birds and blossoms in spring and fruit and feasting in autumn. Before long the remainder of our people will return here to the mountain, you will see. No more will the halls of my forebears be filled with crumbling stone and the stench of dragon. Soon hundreds of my kin will set to work renewing this glorious city." Thorin is cast in shadow even in the moonlight, but his eyes seem to sparkle for a moment before narrowing. "And then let it not be said by Elves and Men that we are not welcome. That we are unworthy of our birthright and foolish in our devotion to the task set before us."

"Thorin . . . " Bilbo begins carefully, "I don't, well, I don't imagine that Bard or the Mirkwood elves, or Lord Elrond for that matter, treated us at first with suspicion out of anything but necessity. They've a duty to protect their own homelands, after all."

Thorin chuckles darkly. "You would not say so had you also been imprisoned by that Elven  zabadu barathgaltzahhar." It's practically growled, but his expression softens as he turns to Bilbo. He goes so far as to ruffle the hobbit's hair affectionately in a manner that Bilbo despises from relatives but which ignites warmth in his belly now. "You have a gentle heart, Master Baggins. It is a rare thing in this world, and I am glad of it. Though I think perhaps you have too much compassion for those who would show you little in return."

"I suppose I prefer to see the best in people."

Thorin doesn't answer. His hair has more braids now than it had in the Wild. A few of them Bilbo had made, plaiting the dark silvered strands diligently during one of Thorin's better moods after entering the Mountain. He remembers Thorin's enthralling voice rumbling with idle talk, the occasional little _mm_ 's he'd let slip at the sensation of Bilbo's fingers.

Presently Thorin is lost in thought, and Bilbo often worries he may stay that way. The wind upsets the dwarf's weather-beaten cloak, his hair and a few of Bilbo's unraveling braids with it.

"I don't suppose you've any pipeweed left?" Bilbo asks, knowing very well that such things had long ago been lost to Mirkwood but wanting almost painfully to return to the nights before they had entered that wood. He misses Thorin coming to relieve his watch, smoking with him well past the time that Nori's shift had started.

It jars Thorin for the moment, anyway. He turns to Bilbo as if only now noticing his presence. "What are you doing here?"

Bilbo blinks. "I'd rather thought somebody had better keep watch with an army on the doorstep?" Thorin had mostly forgotten about the practical aspects of keeping the company safe in favor of gruffness and gold, though Balin and Dwalin had kept order as best they could. "I do believe they mean to enter the mountain at some point, Thorin."

Thorin smirks, and it leaves Bilbo colder than the wind had. "They wouldn't _dare_ ," he sneers.

Bilbo doesn't wish to see this version of Thorin. He turns back to the stars.

Thorin's outstretched hand interrupts. "Come. There is something I wish to show you."

Bilbo almost reaches for his coat, but one look at the dwarf's earnest eyes only serves as a reminder of their wariness of late. He leaves it instead on the ledge by the gate with the Arkenstone tucked safely inside. The impulse to keep it away from Thorin is strong indeed, however sick it leaves him with guilt.

Bilbo reckons it must be well past midnight by now. The others are sleeping soundly near the stone sealed gate, and it had been very late when Balin had awoken Bilbo to begin his shift. As for Thorin, the dark circles under his eyes betray his sleeplessness. 

They walk in silence through the vast empty halls, though it is difficult to see beyond the glow of the torch Thorin is holding aloft. It comforts Bilbo, somehow, to be caught in its brief orange light within the endlessness of Erebor.

The room Thorin leads him to has fallen into disarray. Ornate stone desk and chair, gem-encrusted sconces, a low cushioned bench beneath a threadbare tapestry – their regal splendor now overlaid by dust and cobwebs.

"These were the king my grandfather's apartments," Thorin announces, securing the torch in the nearest sconce and setting rubies aflame. "I came here often when I was young to learn our history." He gestures to the tapestry but Bilbo doesn’t recognize the battle scene woven into the fabric, what looks to be Elves and Men as well as Dwarves and a great dragon retreating into the darkness beyond. "Thror did not spend much time here, as I grew older," he adds, sounding spellbound by memory.

"What did you want to show me?" Bilbo prompts, always fearing that Thorin might not come back to him again.

Thorin's slow smile is a welcome sight. "Come," he says, hand at the small of Bilbo's back to guide him to one corner of the room and the touch feels possessive in both thrilling and disquieting ways. 

Despite the appalling lack of pipeweed Thorin always smells smoky somewhere beneath his usual aura of mint and cedar. Bilbo breathes in the scent and relaxes as he might've on the gratifying first drag of a post-supper pipe.

There is a soft melodious twang as Thorin takes a tiny harp down from a shelf. It's silver, but has long since tarnished. The runes and geometric swirls engraved into the metal are filled now with grime, and Thorin's fingers drifting across the strings set dust floating up. The scale he plays is wrong, though – unharmonious from being left in isolation for so many years.

"I spent many a day in here practicing, trying to play the songs of our people long before I was skilled enough to succeed. My grandfather would help me to hone my skills. Of course I grew out of this harp, eventually." Thorin's voice is genuine. Warm and reverent and his own. "I had forgotten about it."

The harp is so little in Thorin's wide hands as he replaces it on its shelf. 

Bilbo clears his throat. "I must say, I'm surprised you weren't given a child sized axe to play with."

Thorin laughs quietly. "Dwarves are not exclusively interested in battle."

When Bilbo turns to face him he is so overwhelmingly grateful for the openness of Thorin's face and the peace in his eyes that he can't help leaning toward it. And Thorin mirrors him, close and dark and familiar.

Bilbo has never felt compelled to kiss someone before. He's felt obligated to kiss people, even coerced by an overzealously matchmaking aunt or two on the Took side. It is so much of a compulsion with Thorin that Bilbo hasn't paused to consider that Thorin is the same gender or a different race or is slowly losing his mind. All Bilbo considers for the moment is the warm press of his mouth and the soft sound that Thorin makes at the touch.

Bilbo doesn't know why he's surprised by Thorin's lack of hesitation in returning the kiss. And it's such a searing suspended moment that Bilbo can't tell how much time has passed when Thorin pulls back for air, blinking at Bilbo like his brain is beginning to catch up.

But Bilbo has had quite enough of the stubbornness of Dwarves. He seizes the front of Thorin's tunic to drag him down into another kiss. 

Thorin holds Bilbo to him, mouth pliant and willing while his beard brushes against Bilbo's chin. He tastes like Dorwinion wine which reminds Bilbo of sleeping in the Master's hall in Laketown on hides and blankets back when the idea of reclaiming the mountain had seemed desperate and dazzling.

Something heavy presses onto Bilbo's forehead and he realizes it's that insufferable crown of his. Bilbo finds the fact of it so suddenly unbearable that he rips it off on impulse and tosses it on the bench, releasing another cloud of dust. Thorin's only response is a growl and a more demanding kiss. 

The angle strains Bilbo's neck, and Thorin is holding him so tightly that it's difficult to breathe. It is somehow both infuriating and delectable to be held like that, so Bilbo pushes Thorin away until he's forced to sit on a shelf of stone carved into the wall. "I have done quite a lot of accommodating Durin's folk on this quest, so if you could at least accommodate my poor neck it would be much appreciated."

Thorin watches Bilbo begin to peel off his needless armor but does nothing more than breathe quickly as it clatters to the floor and echoes inelegantly through the mountain. Once Thorin is down to the oversized tunic he'd got in Laketown Bilbo runs his hands up Thorin's torso to feel the heat of him, through the chest hair at his open collar and up around to his wonderfully muscled shoulders to brace himself as he climbs up on top of him.

Thorin's strong hands go to Bilbo's hips to secure him while Bilbo pushes Thorin's loosened hair behind his ears, leans in to lick and bite at the curve of the shell and murmur to him, "I've wanted you." He doesn't know what else to call whatever it is that lies between them.

Thorin turns his head to kiss Bilbo's neck. "And this is commonplace in the Shire?"

Bilbo moans at the feeling of Thorin's mouth and has to pull away to catch his breath. Thorin remains startlingly close and appealing and wide-eyed.

"Oh, I don't know," Bilbo sighs. "I've been on the road with dwarves for so long I daresay I barely remember what a sense of propriety even looks like."

Thorin's mouth quirks up. ''Indeed you are as good as a dwarf by now, Master Burglar." He tips Bilbo's head back to expose his throat and places soft sucking kisses along the tendons there, sharp prickle of his beard and melting heat of his mouth. "I would have you clad in gilded cloth and bejeweled from your head to your furry toes," Thorin mutters against Bilbo's skin. "You shall have whatever riches you desire."

Bilbo shakes his head. "No no," he whispers. "No I'd rather have you, actually."

A pleased grumble from Thorin as he bites possessively into the juncture of Bilbo's neck and shoulder. He's pulling Bilbo's shirt off, touching him everywhere with big calloused hands.

"And besides," Bilbo pants. "I haven't a beard, so I'm not certain how convincing a Dwarf I would make, in any event."

Thorin has moved on to Bilbo's britches, tearing hastily at the fastenings. "Can you not grow one?" he asks sympathetically.

Bilbo laughs against the racing of his heart. "Hobbits cannot, no. I'm afraid there is nothing I can do about it."

"Never mind that," Thorin says, palming Bilbo's hardness through his underclothes. Bilbo's head drops to Thorin's shoulder on a gasp. "You please me best as you are now."

Thorin's hand slips beneath the cloth and around his length and Bilbo groans. "You will - _ah_ , Thorin – you will grow your beard again, won't you?"

"What do you mean?" Thorin asks, stroking Bilbo's cock slowly.

''Well you are a Longbeard, are you not?" Bilbo says breathlessly, struggling to focus on unlacing Thorin's britches as well. "I suppose I had always assumed you had stopped growing yours until you returned to your homeland."

Thorin's answering kiss is deep and sweet and sudden. Bilbo moans unabashedly into it, driven mad by the pleasure of Thorin's hand around him and now the proof of Thorin's equal arousal under his fingertips. Bilbo strokes up the underside of his cock, thumbs over the head and spreads around the wetness gathering there.

Bilbo is intoxicated by the sight and feel of the dwarf with his half-bared heaving chest, likes him better this way no matter how marvelous the craftsmanship of his armor was. And there's a wild notion in the back of Bilbo's mind that if he can just keep Thorin trapped in this moment that he might stay sane.

"Touch me," Thorin gasps into Bilbo's mouth. It echoes harshly through the chamber. "Bilbo."

Bilbo wraps his hand more firmly around Thorin's cock and matches the rapid rhythm of Thorin's own hand on him. Thorin's forehead presses urgently against Bilbo's, bruised mouth uttering grunts and whimpers and half-formed pleas that Bilbo feels to his very core. 

"Thorin," Bilbo says to heated air between them. "This feels so good. You feel so . . . "

"Tell me."

" _Ah_ , just . . . " Bilbo thrusts into the perfection of Thorin's grip. "Please don't stop. Please, I don't want this to stop . . . " 

"Like this you are beautiful beyond measure." And Thorin's hand moves faster until Bilbo is incoherent and clawing at him and struggling to continue stroking Thorin's cock as well. 

" _Oh_ . . . oh, yes, _yes_ that's . . ."

"Priceless," Thorin adds, seeking out Bilbo's mouth with his own for a messy kiss. "Precious."

Bilbo finds release with a shout that reverberates into Thorin's panting mouth and through the huge stone halls. His eyes struggle open past the heady waves of pleasure coursing through him. Thorin's are so infatuated, darting over Bilbo's face before he cups his jaw to kiss him softly.

The kiss breaks on Thorin's gasp, his harsh breathing and, "Faster," and, "Bilbo," in an increasingly strained voice until he spills into Bilbo's hand. 

As Bilbo's breathing begins to slow he becomes aware of the awkwardness of their position and clambers off of Thorin, nearly tripping over his feet but Thorin steadies him.

Bilbo blinks at Thorin's hands, takes them in his own on impulse and says vaguely, "I had better get back to keeping watch."

Thorin draws him near, bestowing kisses on Bilbo's mouth and cheek and hair. "It will soon be my turn, will it not? You ought to get some sleep while you may."

So Bilbo lets himself be lazily kissed for long moment before lying on the bench beneath the tapestry, the woven stories of ancient Dwarves filling his vision as he drifts off to sleep and Thorin's warm presence withdraws.

When he is awakened once more a silvery ceiling glimmers through the dust above him. He can sense that dawn is still far off, can't quite pinpoint what had startled him from sleep. The remnants of a lovely lazy dream about mushroom omelets and the smell of bacon fade sadly away.

There comes another muted clang from elsewhere in the mountain. 

Bilbo follows the sound through the halls. It's by an entrance to the vast central chamber that houses the hoard where he finds Bofur urgently shushing Bombur, who is clutching a great two-handled cup and glancing around nervously.

"What is going on?" Bilbo asks.

Bofur whirls on him. "Shhhh! We should not disturb Thorin."

Bilbo frowns. "Is he asleep?"

"No," Bofur hisses, jerking his head in the direction of the stairs. He hasn't replaced his hat with an ornate helm like many of the others, but the gesture carries none of its usual jauntiness.

There's a figure in the shadows that Bilbo knows is Thorin by its bearing alone. He stands high above them, profile padded with armor and crowned once more, watching them wordlessly.

"We must be quiet," Bofur insists.

"No . . . " Bilbo says, though it's mostly to himself. The shadow of Thorin turns to walk deeper into the Mountain. "No, I'll not just sit quietly."

*

[1] Westron, "lord of pigsties"  



End file.
